We are made to bleed (and scab and heal and bleed again)
by only-more-love
Summary: What doesn't bend, breaks. [Theo/Liam]
1. Who is the lamb?

Theo wakes with his sister's heart rabbiting in his chest, unsure what ripped him from sleep this time. There's no stern-faced deputy banging on his window. No afterimages of Tara's death-pale skin crowd his mind. Nor do his ears jangle with the malevolent echoes of his name while she hunts him down long, shadowy hospital corridors.

Blinking against the darkness, he pulls himself upright in the backseat of his truck and tugs at his hair, using his old friend pain to help him get his bearings. The worn blanket that had trapped a meager portion of his own body heat drips down his shoulders and chest and puddles around his waist. Cool air wiggles slim fingers through the truck's barely cracked windows and glides across the bare skin of his arms; draws forth a shiver.

In the distance, a lone howl blooms, slowly crescendoes, then breaks off, shattering the night-dark quiet and leaving every hair on Theo's body standing on end.

Immediately, his wolf and his coyote rise on their haunches, ears pricked and straining toward the sound of the sole creature who owns their unconditional allegiance. _His_ allegiance.

On some days Theo wears his fealty lightly, like a pale thread circled 'round the ring finger of his left hand. On others, it has the heft of a choke collar that chafes against the vulnerable skin of his neck whenever he moves, wherever he goes. It's unclear yet which one of those days today is. He supposes he'll have to wait and see. The thought doesn't sit easy.

Without giving it conscious thought, Theo finds himself fumbling on his shoes, then opening the door. He scrambles out of the truck, feet shushing against shin-high grass, and climbs back into the front seat, head a little bit clearer from the fog of sleep with each passing second.

A quick turn of his key in the ignition rouses the truck engine from its cold slumber. With his window lowered to pull in the chill night air, he tilts his head to the left, eyes shuttered, and inhales deeply. A breeze beckons to his hair. Each full drag of air into his lungs nets Theo a wealth of scents to sift through. Oak, ash, dew-touched grass, the exhaust from his truck, a herd of mule deer . . . The beasts that make their home inside him filter through all these smells and more in a matter of seconds; they discard each one that doesn't matter—and hone in on the only one that does.

His eyes shoot open and he pauses for only a moment, considering, fingers drumming a steady beat against his thigh. He shakes his head in resigned disgust at himself, then chuckles, but it creaks like old metal and lacks any tinge of humor. In the next breath an owl hoots somewhere nearby. With squared shoulders and a glance into his own eyes in the rearview mirror, Theo rolls the truck into an easy reverse and takes off.

 _Was there ever really another choice?  
_

* * *

(He remembers the bowels of the earth; the scrabble of his broken-off claws; the clatter of a sword as it broke; and blue eyes that appear to see everything, including all the jagged, ugly, healed-wrong pieces inside him, but still not enough.)

 _I'm not dying for you._

 _I'm not dying for you, either._

* * *

A waning gibbous moon dangles from a navy canopy sprinkled with stars. Its reflected light catches on the bone-white gleam of his knuckles where they clasp tight to the steering wheel. He must be somewhere close; more than a few miles and Theo wouldn't be able to smell him. But he can; he picks up his familiar scent and tracks it with relative ease.

The road unfurls, the smell grows stronger. As he closes the distance between them, a second howl sounds and deepens the sense of unease that has prickled between Theo's shoulder blades since he first woke. It cuts through the nighttime hush like the twin beams of the truck's headlights slice through the darkness ahead, and yanks Theo's thrumming heart into his throat. Alarms clang inside his skull. Something is off. No, something is _very_ _wrong_. He sounds angry, which isn't so unusual. But there's more . . .

 _Is that_ _ー_ _?_

Blood stutters in Theo's veins.

 _ー_ _Pain._

Theo's stomach clenches.

* * *

 **A/N:** Short and not so sweet this time. Thanks for reading. Should you feel like it, you can tell me the good, the bad, and the ugly; it's all okay. :)

If you want to send me a prompt or fangirl with me about Liam/Theo tumblr, you can find me loitering onlymorelove DOT tumblr DOT com.


	2. Who is the knife?

"See, real pain is emotional pain. That is the kind of pain that lasts."  
― Theo Raeken

* * *

White lane markings on the road flash by as he guns the engine. The red needle on the speedometer ticks past seventy-five. Eighty. Eighty-five. He half expects a police cruiser to come screeching out of nowhere. Liam is worth the risk.

The air that rushes in through Theo's open truck window lashes his skin and twists viciously through his hair, carrying Liam's scent. He follows it like a trail of breadcrumbs and tries not to wonder why his friendー(surely that monosyllabic word is too small to hold all the gratitude, obligation, and, he admits it to himself alone in the darkness, affection, he feels for Liam)ーsounds pained.

There's a drumming noise inside his head. A mallet pounds out an urgent rhythm that gets louder as the scent he's tracking strengthens. As he gets closer to its source.

 _Liam._ _  
_

_Liam._ _  
_

_Liam._

His name beats, again and again, reverberating inside the bony tectonic plates of Theo's skull, driving blood through the valves of his purloined heart, until every last millimeter of his skin is itching with it.

If he could, he'd claw it out of himself. But he can't. The name; the boy; the blue eyes bright with intelligence have burrowed fathoms deep inside Theo. So deep he doesn't know how to separate them from his vital organs. The worst part is knowing that Liam took up residence inside him unknowingly, without intent. (No, the worst part is knowing he's alone in his beautiful misery.)

Question: How does Theo get rid of someone who's become a part of him, without hemorrhaging?

Answer:

A) He tears himself apart, lets the viscera fall where it will, and prays for the best. (Hint: Theo is an atheist.)  
B) He sucks it up and accepts, more or less gracefully, that someone has ripped from him the same bloody, still-beating heart he stole from his sister.  
C) All of the above.

There's a certain delicious irony in Theo's predicament. None of it is lost on him. None of it lessens his suffering. 

* * *

He takes the turn so fast his tires squeal in protest. The hard brake throws him forward against the steering wheel, then back in his seat. In their human cage, his coyote and his wolf prowl, restless. He looses them just enough to see better—to see the battered Hill Valley Zoo sign in the low light, and his brain slips back to the last time he was there, luring hunters, throwing punches, ripping Liam's shirt—and getting his nose broken three times. The fact that those memories raise his lips in a tiny smile should probably worry him. It doesn't.

Theo's worries are perpetually tied in infinity knots around Liam, leaving close to nothing for himself. For someone whose top priority has always been his own survival, _that_ should worry him.

Does it change anything? 

* * *

With each of his senses on high alert and cast outward like a net, he catches only two heartbeats: his own and Liam's. Given the tenor of Liam's howl, he expects hunters, or possibly a supernatural threat. Something that would explain the pain and anger contained in that animal voicing. What his senses tell him doesn't compute, at least not until he stalks through the zoo on fleet yet cautious feet and stills at the sight before him: Liam, shirtless, panting, and pounding a wall of rock with his fists. A swift glance around reveals no other presence, human or supernatural. The danger, such as it is, emanates from Liam himself.

A spindly street lamp flickers, emitting a distracting low-level hum that buzzes in Theo's ears like a swarm of gnats. It throws off a rather sad, anemic puddle of light. Beyond that, the moon sits and observes them from her far-off perch, supremely indifferent. Under their combined illumination, Liam's bare back is an abstract work of light and shadow. Every time he twists and throws another punch, muscles bunch and roll beneath his skin.

Lines. (The thin indentation that runs the length of his back, stretching over his pebbled vertebrae.)

Angles. (The neat taper from under his arms down to his waist.)

Curves. (The caps of his shoulders, thick and round with muscle.)

Motion. (His long hair kisses his shoulders with each rotation of his torso; Theo burns to be that hair.)

The brutal, breath-stealing sum of it limned in moonlight.

They've fought each other. They've fought other opponents, as well. But in the heat of battle, there's been scant opportunity for Theo to admire the raw power and liquid grace with which Liam moves. If there's something voyeuristic in his observation, he doesn't feel much more than a faint twinge of guilt. _Is it so wrong_ , he wonders, _to admire what's beautiful?_ Is it so wrong to yearn for care; for closeness; for kindness and attention? Watching Liam, now, makes something clutch and ache deep inside Theo, where he didn't think he could feel anything more.

But blood's coppery tang drips heavy in the atmosphere. It melds with the cocktail of Liam's anguish and anger. Blinking, Theo rouses from his half-daze and shoves aside the yawning hunger Liam wakes in him. Though not more than a minute or two has passed, it seems like much longer.

Being on the outside with his face pressed up against a cold pane of glass, watching and wanting, this is what Theo knows. Unfulfilled desire, like pain, is an old friend of his. Now isn't the right time for this; it will probably _never_ be the right time for this.

Theo coughs and steps out of the shadows. "What did that rock ever do to you?" he says quietly to Liam's naked back, embellishing the question with a hint of humor. To want and want and never, ever have . . . His claws unsheathe; their tips pierce his palms.

Liam doesn't speak. His bare shoulders harden to stone, though, the only indication he's heard Theo's lightly mocking question.

Grass swishes against his legs as Theo moves several steps closer to Liam. All around them insects chitter and chirp. The sounds are almost drowned out by the relentless thud of Liam's rapid heartbeat.

"Go away, Theo," Liam says, and the way the words ring out slightly distorted tells Theo he's speaking around a mouthful of sharp fangs. Tangled with the anger in his voice is a weary, mournful note. It amps up the tension Theo already carries.

"No."

"I don't want you here."

That one pierces like a needle. Still, Theo keeps his face impassive when he says, "Tell me something I don't know." Despite his best effort, something must reveal itself in his voice or his scent, because Liam turns to face him.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Liam asks, his voice taking on a thin coat of softness, and Theo watches the wolf flow from his features, leaving behind the human features of the boy he—

 _You called, I came._ "I heard you." He shrugs. "You sounded hurt." As soon as Theo finishes the sentence, he knows by the upward thrust of Liam's chin and the sudden rigidity in his shoulders that he said the wrong thing. He forces himself to continue. "Someone has to keep your sorry ass out of trouble." _I was worried._

"Well, I don't need a babysitter. I'm fine."

Even if he couldn't smell the blatant lie, hours spent in Liam's company have rendered Theo proficient at parsing Liam-speak and reading the text inscribed in the tense corners of his mouth. "You want to try that again, little wolf?" he says, lips quirked in a smirk.

"Stop calling me that. I hate it."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? What kind of dumb question is that anyway? I hate it because of what it implies."

"What do you think it implies?"

"That I'm short, asshole."

"You are."

"Not. Helping. Theo."

Theo lifts his hands in a gesture of placation. "Look, you're short. So what? Who cares? It's okay. It's not a character flaw, Liam. We all have our shortcomings." Almost anything would be better than the miasma of suffocating sadness surrounding Liam.

Liam's eyes flash gold. That's the only warning Theo gets before Liam lets loose a low growl and nails a wicked uppercut just under Theo's chin. The impact snaps his head back. He stumbles but stays standing.

"Feel better?" Goading Liam was a fucked-up attempt at helping him, Theo knows, but he's never claimed to be normal.

"Fuck no." Liam's voice is a colorless thread in the darkness, and his gaze focuses on his hands, which are held in front of him, fluttering like wind-brushed leaves. Blood slides from his knuckles.

"Would it help if I hit you back? Then—"

Liam shakes his head, meeting Theo's gaze. "No."

"—we could beat the shit out of each other, maybe roll around in the dirt for a while . . ." _Tell me how to help you._

"No. I don't want to fight you."

"That's a first," Theo mutters. He doesn't mean anything by the remark, but Liam's shoulders hunch inward in a protective gesture and his gaze skitters away from Theo's.

"Fine. If you don't want to use your fists, be a big boy and use your words. Tell me what's wrong. You smell angry. But also sad and—"

"Huh. I thought people could only feel one emotion at a time."

"This may come as a shock to you, Dunbar, but sometimes I actually have no fucking idea what I'm talking about."

Liam's eyes widen in what Theo is pretty confident is faux surprise. "No shit, Sherlock." He scuffs his shoe in the grass. "Nice to finally hear you admit it, though."

"Enjoy this moment, sucker"—Theo pauses to spit blood into the dirt; he bit his tongue when Liam punched him—"it's never happening again."

A fleeting smile ghosts across Liam's mouth. There, but vanished too soon.

"Wait here. I'll be right back," Theo says.

Liam shrugs and turns his face skyward, a bleached cutout in the dark. A shiver wends its way up Theo's spine. 

* * *

Theo uncaps the water bottle he scrounged from his truck and tilts his head toward a large, flat-topped boulder. "Sit."

"Woof," Liam replies, head tipped to the side, gazing up at him through his eyelashes, his expressive face looking for all the world like a puppy, and Theo huffs a soft laugh. Liam goes without protest, lowering himself onto the rock with a sigh that sounds like it's been dredged up from the marrow of his bones. Theo can relate. He feels like that more often than he'd admit to anyone, especially Liam.

Kneeling on the ground at Liam's feet, Theo slides his palm under Liam's and examines the top of his hand. Liam's hand feels warm against Theo's. One of them is trembling, fine tremors of a little earthquake; Theo doesn't know if it's him or Liam. Awareness surrounds Theo, makes his heart beat just that incremental bit faster.

The split skin over Liam's knuckles is already starting to knit back together over the bones that probably broke and are re-healing, just as they did when he broke every bone in his hands trying not to kill Nolan. But there's still blood on his skin. Theo's hold on Liam moves to his wrist. Pointing Liam's hand down, Theo pours a thin stream of water over it. Gravity does the rest; water mixes with the blood and drips a slow trail onto the ground beneath their feet. From over his shoulder, Theo pulls one of the four t-shirts he currently owns. He uses it to dab gently at Liam's clean but damp hand.

When he repeats the process on Liam's other hand, Liam cracks open the fraught silence between them. "I'm sorry."

Theo freezes. "For what?" It tumbles out in a croak. He clears his throat and waits for an answer.

"For hitting you."

After giving it a final pat with a dry patch of the t-shirt, Theo carefully sets Liam's hand on his knee. He wants to linger; wants to map and learn the texture of Liam's skin. But with no excuse to do so, he stands, joints snapping like dry twigs. His hands feel useless and oddly empty now. In a bid to buy himself time, Theo wipes his palms on his pants before he interlocks his fingers and sits next to Liam, fidgeting for a moment. Their shoulders touch briefly, but long enough for Theo to want to lean into that single point of connection and wish for more. "I deserved it."

Liam glances sidelong at him; Theo feels it more than sees it. "No, you didn't."

"I was trying to piss you off."

"That doesn't make it okay. Not today." Liam releases a slow, ragged breath. "And not on any other day when I've . . . when I've hurt you. I'm sorry for all of it." His head hangs low in something that seems an awful lot like shame.

"Liam, I'm a chimera. I heal. Fast. Not as fast as you, but still fast. And I fight back."

"That's really not the point, Theo."

"The point? Who are you even talking to?" Given the list of his own crimes, Theo can hardly believe what he's hearing. "The point is I'm a murderer and a liar. Do you think I'm in any position to judge you?"

"Maybe you should be judging me. Maybe you shouldn't make this easy for me. _Don't_ make this easy for me. I don't deserve it." Beside him, Liam's body is strung tight, taut as a tripwire.

In Theo's eyes, there is no one more deserving than Liam. Liam deserves every good and kind thing that exists in the world; everything Theo does not.

"Don't save me. Why do you keep trying to save me, Theo?"

Here, then, is a question Theo doesn't want to answer. "If you figure it out, let me know."

"I need the truth, Theo. Please," Liam begs, and it's the plea in his voice that does Theo in. Because when it comes down to it, there are few things Liam could ask of Theo that he wouldn't be willing to give him.

Tonight, then, Theo wears his fealty to Liam like a choke collar around his neck. There is so little slack; so little give. How much will Liam ask of him? How much will Theo give Liam?

 _A truth for a truth, then,_ he thinks with a wry twist to his lips. _So be it._

Theo takes another shirt from over his other shoulder and drops it in Liam's lap. "Put this on," he says, leaving no room for argument, and waits for Liam to obey. Surprisingly, he does. Only then does Theo continue. "I'll tell you what you want to know, but only if you promise to tell me why you're out here trying to hurt yourself. Deal?"

Liam's clear eyes are wide and frost-pale, nearly unearthly, as they face each other. "Deal."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading. If you feel like it, share your thoughts with me in the comments. I promise you'll get a response. You can tell me the good, the bad, and the ugly; it's all okay.

If you want to send me a prompt or fangirl with me about Liam/Theo tumblr, you can find me loitering at onlymorelove DOT tumblr DOT com.


	3. Chapter title is too long for this box

_The autumn days swung soft around me, like cotton on my skin  
But as the embers of the summer lost their breath and disappeared  
My heart went cold and only hollow rhythms resounded from within  
But then he rose, brilliant as the moon in full  
And sank in the burrows of my keep  
And all my armor falling down, in a pile at my feet  
And my winter giving way to warm, as I'm singing him to sleep_

— Fiona Apple, "Pale September"

* * *

 **Chapter Title** : "The laws of physics bend, when you touch my hand."  
— Luke Sital-Singh, "Cynic"

Early September, and the summer heat that had girls and guys alike turning bare shoulders and legs toward the sun eases into crisp hints of the fall chill still to come. If Liam closes his eyes, it bites at his nose, the faint, bitter scent of rot and decay wrought by dry, crumbling leaves and broad swaths of grass that have gradually shifted from the brilliant green of a lacrosse field to dull brown.

Green. Brown. The mix of which Liam finds in the quicksilver flash of Theo's eyes.

Seasons turn; civilizations die. If there's anything history has taught Liam it's this: change and death are the only constants in an inconstant world. And yet—

Without the sun's rays to warm him, goosebumps rise on Liam's bare forearms. When his bedroom started to feel too small, shoving against each one of his boundaries; when all the oxygen in the atmosphere seemed to have fled, and his lungs struggled to pull in the air his brain said his body needed; when that scalding ball of rage started simmering in his stomach, he'd opened his window, jumped out, and run.

He'd only been wearing a loose pair of sleep pants. The fact that he was shirtless hadn't mattered at the time. But slowing down enough to think instead of just acting on impulse when he's angry hasn't been one of his strengths for a long, long time, if ever. Now he's cold, even wearing the t-shirt Theo had forced on him. He's grateful to the other boy for loaning him a shirt. For saving his ass, yet again.

Why does Theo even bother? What anchors him to Beacon Hills? He could go almost anywhere, and the thought of having that kind of freedom—the freedom to _choose_ —fills Liam with sour jealousy.

Scott never asked him if he wanted to be a werewolf, something to be feared, hated, and threatened by a slavering mob; he bit him when they were still strangers and then offered hollow platitudes like "The bite is a gift!" after the fact.

(Nor did anyone ever ask Liam if he wanted an asshole for a fa— He's not thinking about that. Nope, not going there.)

The shirt Theo tossed him to wear smells like cheap laundry detergent and Theo's truck, and Liam really, really doesn't want to think about what it might mean that as he stands in the darkness and drinks in the combined scents like a man who's been wandering in the desert for a hundred years, throat parched, skin blistering, his wolf whines piteously and throws itself against the bars of its cage in an effort to get closer to Theo.

Theo, for his part, watches him, hands in his pockets and head angled down the slightest bit because of the few extra inches of height he has on Liam. He holds his body perfectly still except for the slight furrow between his eyebrows.

Questions curl in the night air around them, in the space between one breath and the next. But Theo doesn't voice them. His gaze glides skyward for a moment, luring Liam's attention to the sleek line of his throat. Then he looks to Liam again, endlessly patient in a way most people stopped being ages ago, if they ever bothered in the first place. That patience is a dangerous thing because it catches in Liam's throat and his hands; makes him yearn to forget caution and tell Theo things—important things.

Theo had called himself a murderer and a liar. Liam saw no use in arguing against that. But since Liam had released Theo from his underground prison, he'd risked himself to help. When he rinsed the blood from Liam's battered hands, his touch was gentle, even careful. Is a person merely the sum of his sins, or is there room for a more complicated calculus of morality in their supernatural world? Just thinking about it makes Liam (more) tired.

Moonlight carves harsh lines and casts strange shadows onto the unreadable mask of Theo's face. All the color has leached from his skin, leaving him pale as a marble statue. As untouchable, too.

Liam shivers. Not from the cold that's seeped into his bones, though. From holding back.

He wants to touch.

Theo's pulse thuds even and regular, giving away nothing. Not panic. Not fear. Not awareness of the war raging within Liam.

 _Must be fucking nice_ , Liam thinks with no small amount of resentment rising inside him in a bitter, towering wave, _to be able to hide what you're thinking so completely._ His hands curl into fists at his sides. The movement sends small glimmers of pain jolting through Liam's almost-healed skin and bones. A confusing tumult of feelings Liam doesn't want to name riots inside his chest, making his breath sough a touch faster. To name something is to give it meaning and power; Liam is tired of things having power over him. His IED. The moon. His alpha. Hunters. The Anuk-Ite.

Nevertheless, he wants— He wants to draw closer to Theo. He wants to plant his hands against Theo's chest just long enough to feel the throb of his heart and the hot tide of blood rushing through his veins under his palms, and then shove him back until he stumbles. He wants to set his hands to the hard planes of Theo's cheek and jaw; wants to slide his fingertips over that skin like he's reading braille and check for the rasp of overnight stubble. He wants to hear Theo's heartbeat stutter. He wants to make it stutter—in shock; in arousal; in _something_.

In his chest . . . In the whorls of his fingertips . . . In the storm-heavy electric pressure behind his eyes, Liam _wants_.

Above all, Liam wants to claw through Theo's composure and leave him as wrecked and bloody and off-balance as he feels. Why should he get to stand there and look like nothing and no one can touch him or hurt him or make him feel, when Liam is an open wound spilling blood and guts out on the uncaring ground at his feet?

Liam's body doesn't feel big enough to hold everything itching and clamoring beneath the surface of his skin. With his breath held, he watched Theo take a dying Gabe's pain. Tributaries of black swam up Theo's corded arms, and now, he wishes he would take Liam's. Wishes he _could_.

He's not oblivious to how Theo watches him. Watching: he's always watching Liam. There's a quiet, patient quality to the way he watches Liam. Theo studies him like a scientist. He observes Liam with those kaleidoscope eyes, as if just the act of looking is enough. As if Theo knows that if he simply bides his time and waits long enough, Liam will act.

(Theo's not wrong.)

 _Be careful; he knows you._ Liam doesn't want to be known like this. _Liar_. He doesn't want to be understood. _Liar liar, everything on fire._ Sometimes Liam wonders exactly what Theo knows and understands about him from all the watching he's done.

What is Theo waiting for? Liam is exhausted from all the waiting and being watched.

One sharp exhale and Liam stands in the sacrosanct bubble of Theo's personal space, hand stretched over his breastbone. Things crack and splinter inside Liam as he listens to Theo's heart and feels it, too, in stereo. He taps his fingers against Theo's chest in time with his pulse, gratified when the tempo increases.

Finally, the scientist is gone. What's left in his place is a boy looking down at Liam with ancient, shadowed eyes growing slowly wider the longer Liam tap tap taps.

"You first, Theo. Why do you keep trying to save me?"

Theo hesitates, then takes a deep breath. Another. If Liam didn't know better, he would say Theo's calming himself.

* * *

Liam is the warning prick of claws against the carotid arteries in Theo's neck. A single swift slash and Theo's blood would jet in a brutal crimson arc.

Theo's prime directive is survival. In spite of that, he doesn't know how to step back from Liam.

A hand at Theo's chest, Liam's hand, holds him in place. His fingertips drum in time with the cadence of Theo's heart. Through a layer of cotton, through strata of skin, Liam's touch scalds. It transforms fabric and flesh alike to ash, burning through every one of Theo's defenses, until Liam's hand curls around Theo's naked, pulsing heart. Around the heart Theo stole from his sister.

"Because you saved me," Theo replies, voice hoarse, and speaking the words is like vomiting shards of glass.

Liam's mouth draws down in a frown. "How?" He leaves one hand resting on Theo's chest, but the other drifts to Theo's jaw, strokes lightly, the motion seemingly absentminded.

A sigh breaks from Theo's lips. "You know how, Liam," he answers, wondering if there's blood dripping from his mouth.

"No, Theo, I really don't. You know why?"

Theo shakes his head.

"Because you don't talk."

"I talk plenty, Liam."

Liam's fingers stop their stroking and flick Theo in the chin. "Not about yourself, you don't. So talk to me now." Command and plea twine in Liam's voice, jerking at the choke collar that circles Theo's neck.

Bile rises in Theo's throat, thick and sour. Theo closes his eyes; he can't look at Liam while he says this. He can't bear to see the horror and condemnation that are sure to follow, even though he knows he deserves it all—and more.

"That heart you feel beating under your hand? It's not mine. It's . . . It's my . . ." _Coward_. "It's Tara's. It's my sister's." Theo coughs and attempts to gather the tattered rags of his courage around him. "I killed her."

"I know you did."

"You asked, Liam. Let me finish." The brusqueness in his tone, he almost regrets it. But he has to finish this while he still can. "It was winter— The creek was icy. She begged me to help her. But I . . . I just stood there and let her die so the Dread Doctors could give me her heart.

"When Kira split the ground open with her sword, Tara pulled me down. She wanted her heart back. She came for it. Again and again and again, she ripped it out of my chest. It's hers." Theo's shoulders snap up and down in a shrug he hopes appears careless. "She wanted it back." He laughs, the sound wet and humorless. "She still wants it." Though his voice remains steady, Theo's body is anything but. He's quivering, unbalanced, teetering on a serrated blade. "That's what you saved me from, Liam." _That's why I'll do almost anything for you,_ he thinks but doesn't say.

Theo clasps Liam's hand, intending to pull it from where it still sits against Theo's chest. Being touched like this feels nearly unbearable. He doesn't deserve it, and as soon as Liam's head clears enough for him to process the immutable reality of what Theo's done, surely he'll regret touching him at all. Better to get it over with now.

But Liam's grip tightens, and Theo is left holding their joined hands to his own chest.

"Open your eyes, Theo. Look at me."

* * *

 **A/N** : I swear I'm going to put these guys out of their misery and end this in the next chapter.

If you're up to commenting, I would love to hear what you thought. As of now this story has exactly zero reviews here. Is it that bad? Should you feel like it, you can tell me the good, the bad, and the ugly; it's all okay. :) Regardless, thanks for reading.

You can find me loitering at onlymorelove DOT tumblr DOT com.


	4. Everything you do is quite angelicate

_Everything you do is simply delicate_  
 _Everything you do is quite angelicate_  
 _Why can't I be you?_  
 _Why can't I be you?_

—The Cure, "Why Can't I Be You?"

* * *

Theo takes in a swift, shuddering breath, feels it scratch and scrawl against his lungs, before he obeys Liam's dictate. He wants to put it off, this moment of reckoning, but . . . A flutter of his lashes and he's peering down at Liam and into his eyes. This close, with only a couple inches and a decade of regrets separating them, Liam's eyes gleam a mix of silver and blue that's impossible to turn away from. Even though he does want to glance away, hide away, from Liam's eyes and whatever they can see of him and his secrets and his fears and the litany of things he still desperately wishes he could change, even though his deeds are carved in stone.

"Is that the _only_ reason you keep trying to save my stupid ass?" Liam asks. He finally relaxes his hold on Theo's shirt; Theo tries, unsuccessfully, not to miss his touch. Tries not to care. But if Theo is rock, Liam is water, bubbling and sliding over him again and again, rounding and smoothing Theo's jagged edges.

 _You're going soft. He's making you soft,_ Theo thinks with a hint of panic he quells mercilessly. The Doctors' vicious, static-laden voices reach across the years with stinging, poison-tipped claws to say: _Emotion makes you weak and pathetic. Emotion is_ ** _for_ **_the weak and pathetic._ But those same voices labeled him a failure. And he is; they were right about that. However, they were wrong, dead wrong, about so many other things. Maybe— Maybe emotion—

Liam's arms fold tight across the breadth of his chest. The movement lures Theo's focus to Liam's thick biceps before he can help it. As quickly as he can, he tilts his chin and forces himself to concentrate on a thin, wispy cloud floating under the moon, hoping Liam didn't notice where he had just been staring. When he thinks he can control his attention, Theo turns back. He crams his fisted hands in his pockets and plants his gaze firmly on Liam's face. He's getting careless. That's not something Theo can afford, but he's beginning to think he could shatter every last fragment of himself on Liam, and turn, bruised, bloody-lipped, and broken, and still beg him for more.

"Isn't that reason enough?" Theo asks slowly. "I deserved it, but there's not much worse than what I went through down there with my sister. You weren't there; you don't understand exactly what you saved me from."

"Yeah, sure. Okay. But . . ." Liam's voice trails off, and his mouth segues into a frown. With rough hands, Liam shoves at his hair. He presses fingertips to his temples as his face contorts in a grimace.

Something pricks at the edge of Theo's awareness. Their mouths are moving; words are coming out. They're having a conversation, but Theo has the odd sense that he's missing something crucial. He can read Liam's chemosignals, sure, and his expressions, too, to a certain extent. But he can't read his thoughts. Right now there's a great deal Theo would willingly barter or even outright sacrifice to have that ability. Eyes narrowed, he trains his gaze on Liam.

A sigh drops, stone-heavy, from Liam's lips before he shakes his head and squares his shoulders. "Your sister— You said she still wants it. Your heart, I mean."

"She does. I think she'll always want it," Theo says. "It's hers; I stole it."

"Well, she can't have it." Liam bites his lip, drawing the cushiony bottom one between his teeth. Watching Liam worry his lip makes Theo wish for impossible things. It makes Theo wish he could— "If she wants it back"—Liam lifts a hand and lets his claws flash out from his fingers—"she'll have to get through me first." Liam's mouth twists, then settles in a hard, stubborn line Theo recognizes; he's seen it often enough to know one thing: Liam means what he's saying.

Theo blinks. "Why…?" He doesn't get the entire sentence out on the first attempt because it lodges in his throat, nearly choking him. Which is strange because Theo isn't used to tripping and fumbling over his words. That usually falls in Liam's territory. But Liam has an inexplicable knack for surprising Theo, for sneaking over the walls of the citadel he's erected to protect the small, vulnerable particles of himself that life hasn't yet burned away, so Theo really shouldn't be taken aback by his current bout of Liam-induced verbal clumsiness.

Since he didn't succeed on the first try, Theo tries again to speak his aborted sentence: "Why would you do that?" There's a plaintive, need-filled bassline thrumming beneath the top layer of the question; Theo hadn't intended to put it there.

A faint smile softens the steely line of Liam's mouth, and Theo's heart clenches. Liam's eyebrows climb toward his hair. "Why do you think, dumbass?" he asks, and Theo's fingers tingle with the need to smooth the creases in Liam's forehead.

Theo shrugs, hand swiping over his jaw, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

"Theo, for a pretty smart guy, you really are an idiot sometimes."

"Takes one to know one, Liam."

"Har har. Always the comedian." Liam clicks his tongue and lifts his hand in a mocking, finger gun salute.

Theo just lets his eyes roll in response, and waits.

As the silence stumbles off the cliff of comfortable and hovers on the edge of awkward, Liam sighs and clears his throat. "Hell if I know why, but you've got my back, and I've got yours. People can change. _You've_ changed." He pauses and eyes Theo like he's expecting him to respond. When he doesn't, Liam puts his hands on his hips, shakes his head, and flicks his gaze to the ground. "We're friends, Theo. That's why I'd fight your sister if I had to."

With his arms open and palms held up, Liam slants a look at Theo. Even messy haired and tormented, Liam remains beautiful—so beautiful he steals Theo's breath—and every piece of the medley of animal and human that constitutes Theo wants him so badly, in every way it's possible for one person to want another.

Liam's gaze grips Theo's and holds on, sharp and unblinking. Skewered by that keen regard like a butterfly pinned to a display block, Theo doesn't avert his attention as Liam says, "Because we're friends. Friends protect each other."

Theo's mouth turns arid. When he'd returned to Beacon Hills, he'd come in search of a pack and in search of power. Neither had materialized, but to think there might be even a slim chance for him to have something, have some _one_ like Liam, leaves Theo lightheaded and dizzy.

He doesn't need Liam's protection; Theo knows how to take care of himself. He's done so for a terrible decade; Theo's seen too much to believe anyone can shield him. Nonetheless, he can't remember when last someone had _wanted_ to protect him. For Liam to be the single person to offer him protection and friendship drives the thoughts from Theo's mind; the words from a mouth that's too used to being facile and insincere.

Liam fiddles with the hem of his shirt and scuffs his shoes in the dirt, pausing now and then to throw another weighty, considering glance in Theo's direction. He's waiting. Theo knows he should toss back a glib rejoinder—something light and sarcastic that shows exactly how unaffected he is by Liam's comments. "Friends," Theo finally says instead, voice gravel-rough, and wants to smack himself in the head for sounding like a moronic parrot. _Friends._ The word tastes foreign. Not bad, just strange. Unexpected.

Theo's been a monster; a means to an end; a pawn; a necessary evil. But a friend? Probably the last time anyone used that word in reference to Theo— _maybe Scott or Stiles did?_ —and meant it, was when he was eight or nine-years-old.

 _(It's only a figure of speech. It doesn't mean anything.)_

Now, at eighteen, Theo stands straighter and returns Liam's scrutiny without flinching, though his skin prickles under the heady pressure of the other boy's regard. He wipes a hand over his mouth and fights back the goofy little smile that threatens to stretch across his face and ruin the dregs of his battered dignity; he loses the battle, however, against a slow warmth that spreads steadily up from his stomach and into his chest, where it settles, glowing bright even in the September night.

Liam drums his fingers against the bend of his forearm. "Yeah. Friends," he says, and shrugs as if that settles and explains everything.

For Theo it only makes more questions buzz in his head, so he asks, "Is that what we are—friends?" in a hushed voice. Sudden heat blooms on the back of Theo's neck. He winces when he realizes his mouth has moved without his explicit permission. (Reassurance. Theo's begging for reassurance, like a needy child, whether Liam realizes it or not.) If it would help, Theo would punch himself in the face. Sadly, it's a lost cause because that wouldn't erase the stupidly bold question he uttered. For some reason, it's always Liam who gets Theo to take idiotic risks, risks he wouldn't take for anyone but him. One look at Liam and Theo's good sense vanishes like it never existed.

Theo tries to slow the embarrassing gallop of his pulse, all too aware Liam can hear it if he's being observant, but Theo's heart doesn't seem to want to obey his commands either. Liam is hell on Theo's self-control.

A gust of wind jostles the leaves in the trees near where they stand. Shivers start on Theo's bare forearms. Across from Theo, Liam's expression tumbles into thoughtful lines. "Mmm-hmm," Liam eventually says. His warm hands clutch at Theo's shoulders while he sways close, closer, and closer yet. The heat, scent, and sound of him flood each of Theo's senses in a rapid succession of cascading waves. "Friends," Liam whispers, his lips moving right up against Theo's mouth, and Theo shivers again and again as every synapse in his poor brain explodes in flames.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Thanks for reading. Got any thoughts for me? A single comment would make my day. :) I'd love to hear from you.


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